


post-war blues

by alltheworldsinmyhead



Series: royai drabbles [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Royai - Freeform, Royai Week 2018, angst with happy ending, just a little bit, just a little bit tragic but don't worry, world war ii au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 17:17:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheworldsinmyhead/pseuds/alltheworldsinmyhead
Summary: The war is over and so Roy is coming home - and she's been waiting for so, so long that it's hard to believe she'll see him again





	post-war blues

 

 

_'Cause they say home is where your heart is set in stone_

_Is where you go when you're alone_

_Is where you go to rest your bones_

_It's not just where you lay your head_

_It's not just where you make your bed_

_As long as we're together, does it matter where we go?_

- _Gabrielle Aplin “Home”_

 

 

 

* * *

 

**ROY**

 

By the end of the war, Roy makes Captain.  It does not hold any particular significance, as there are no longer actively fighting and he won’t be in military  anymore, but he is given this rank as an award for “countless successful missions”, “unusual acts of bravery on the battlefield” and for “ wit and strategic thinking of truly unique kind"- at least that’s what the official letter from general command states.  All of his superiors agree that he well deserved it and all of his colleagues congratulate him, loudly demand a celebratory round of drinks and then jokingly call him “sir” for a day or two.

And Roy… well.

 It feels very wrong somehow, to be given promotions for dropping bombs on the cities.

 

He boards the train home along with Maes, leaving Breda and Fuery on the crowded station in London and parting with Falman and Havoc a few stops later.  They pass small towns and forests and fields on their way and as Maes falls asleep with Gracia’s letter laying on his knees, Roy stares out of the window and thinks about coming back home.

His mother will be there, waiting for his train; he is sure of that. She’s mad at him, but not so mad not to welcome him back. And Mimi will be there too, by mother’s side. He’s sure his little sister must’ve changed through all those years but it’s hard to imagine that she’s not a girl anymore. That she no longer wears two braids, no longer sneaks out to wander through the woods and would not follow him wherever he goes with the puppy devotion.

Both his mother and Mimi will wear black and there will be an empty space right where his father should be standing.

And of course, the whole village will be there, whether waiting for their loved ones to come home or watching other’s loved ones coming home with bittersweet envy.  Mrs. Jones from the bakery and miss Poppy from the school and all of the women from the church’s choir and Mister Haviland who lost his leg in the first Great War and escaped enlisting into part two of it.

 

And there will be Riza. She will come. She will come with her head held high, against gossips of the town, against his mother’s poisonous glances and her father's curses. She will come and wait for him, with her hands bare and no shame whatsoever.

God, he missed her. He missed her so bad that this yearning has taken a form of physical pain somewhere in his chest. No bullet could ever hurt as much as being away from Riza for so long.

 

He has even a proof of that.

Lucky charms are abundant in an army during the war; whether it’s a photograph of their loved ones ( or photographies, as plural, in case of Maes) or some object, like a pack of disgusting, cheap cigarettes favored by Havoc or a worn-out pocket size bible of Falman’s. Even men that could never be called superstitious held something special to them close at all times.  No matter how reasonable and grounded you are, the moment you are up in the air and see Messerschmitts on the horizon, every rational thought flies out of the window. You may know that those special items don’t really do anything, but it doesn’t hurt to have them, right?

Roy was not an exception from this rule and was not particularly ashamed of that, although he wasn’t sure this object could be called a lucky charm in a strict definition of this term. Sometimes he thought of it as of a  lifeline, connecting him to a person he used to be before he left to join this horrible, pointless war; as of some kind of a link that he could hold on to when he felt he was about to slip into insanity any moment.                                                                                                           

   It was a small, wooden chess piece, white paint peeling off it, hole drilled through its middle so that he can wear it on a chain around his neck.

A queen, that he snatched from the table one August day and hid in his pocket, without understanding why he did so.  

Every time he raised his hand up and found its familiar shape underneath his shirt it was almost as if he was back home again, sitting on the wooden porch of Hawk’s Nest, Riza in front of him;  biting on her lower lip and thinking about her next move, eyes fixed on the board and unaware that he cannot, for dear life, stop staring at her.

He had some more mementos in the base during the war; a thick stack of letters from his parents and a small bouquet of dried primroses from his sister; Riza’s yellow ribbon that she wore on her wide-brimmed hat when she went to send him off on the train station; some photographies; his journal. But for some reason, the chess piece was the thing that he felt most connected to.

He loves his mother, loves his sister and loved his father dearly. They are his family and he owes them everything. No matter how at odds he is with his mom, he knows she’ll be waiting for him at the station and he will wrap her up in a hug and feel like a little boy again.

But as the train whistles sharply and starts to slow down, making its way towards the familiar stop at snail’s pace- as he thinks of home, all he can think about are warm, brown eyes and the lovely face of the girl that agreed to marry him, before he set the world on fire. He doesn’t deserve her hand, now more than ever, but damn. If he’s alive when so many others are dead, he’s gonna use the rest of his life trying to become better for her.

With a small smile on his lips and holding the white queen in his hand, he smacks Maes’ thigh to wake him up and stands up to reach for his suitcase.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**RIZA**

By the time she reaches the train station, Riza’s dress is drenched with sweat, her fringe is plastered to her forehead and she’s so nervous that she’s afraid her heart will just jump out of her chest and fall in front of Roy’s feet.

It’s a beautiful June day; the sun is shining brightly on the clear sky, sheep look like clouds of white, their fur slowly growing back after April shearing. But Lucille's calf had hurt his leg sometime during the night and then she had had to manage the small crisis in chicken coop - and ended up just barely managing to finish all of her duties on time this morning. She had run through almost whole 6 miles long way from Hawk’s Nest to the station and cursed the sun the whole time.

But it’s still so good to be here, to get her hands dirty, to numb the voices in her head with the grueling physical work.  After she came back from London in early April, she found the farm in such bad shape that she has spent a few following weeks just working and sleeping, working and sleeping. A blissful escape from thinking, if anyone asked her. Maybe her muscles were burning and angry blisters were forming on her hands, but at least she did not have to sit in the office the whole day and type and type and type, the letters forming names and surnames, each one meaning someone was not coming home anymore.

At least she didn’t fall asleep with the images of burning planes spiraling down and crashing into the sea. At least she didn’t wake up each day with the excruciating pain that she will hear “Roy  Mustang” through the radio.

Thank God for small blessings.

 

She is not in London anymore. She is home, standing in front of the train station, with her hair messy and the hole in her stocking, waiting for Roy’s train to arrive.

For the millionth time she recalls the last time she saw him; at the party, his parents held for when he went on his first and last leave, just after completing the training and before starting serve. They had spent the first hour or so politely conversing about his military life and her transcribing course, circling each other cautiously and acting as strangers.

He was wearing his uniform and she was wearing this blue dress with buttons that she doesn’t have anymore because it became too big when she has lost weight. She thinks she has given it this one pregnant friend of Rebecca's, but she’s not sure.

They were chatting about everything and nothing as if there was nothing between them as if he has never kissed her, as if she has never kissed him back – and then he offered her his hand and pulled her towards his childhood bedroom.

She closes her eyes and yes, she still remembers it all so clearly; the trumpets in the song playing downstairs, his slicked-backed hair and dark eyes, so honest and more serious than she has ever seen him before. How he dropped on one knee and leaned his forehead on the knuckles of her left hand, the rich timbre of his voice, quietly asking her to please, allow him the joy of marrying her.

And her soft, breathy “yes”.

How could she even do anything else but agree?  She could never deny Roy anything he would ask for.

She smooths out the wrinkles on her skirt, takes a deep breath and pushes the glass doors; the train station is crowded, full of those lucky ones who get to see their sons and fiancés and brothers come home. She, with her sweaty palms and serious face, sticks out as a sore thumb.

She spots Mrs. Mustang in the crowd with no problem; clad all in black, with face obscured by the widow’s veil she puts a little distance between her and everyone else, back straight and hands laced. She is the epitome of grace, even with this bittersweet air of half-sadness, half-joy surrounding her. Riza doesn’t dare to step closer, as the last time they talked she received a firm slap on the cheek and a clear signal that she would never be welcomed into this family, no matter how insistent Roy was on marrying her.

Riza sacrifices a minute or two to go through her old list of reasons why Lilian Mustang hates her; she is poor, her father is mad, her mother is dead, her farm is ruined. She is nothing but debt and trouble. She has – or at least had, now, that the war is over-  a job. She hunts. She wears pants sometimes. She’s not a virgin.

And the one at the root of it all; she stole her darling son from her. She’s been stealing him, piece by piece, for years, long before they were found in those raspberry bushes, drunk in each other. 

But Riza can do nothing about it and she has already spent too much time dwelling on that, so she shakes it off, trying instead to focus on Mimi.  Roy’s younger sister grew up so much while Riza stayed in London, that she barely looks like the same person; she’s so tall now, with the  same black hair as all of the Mustang’s tied in a ponytail and wearing modest gray dress that belongs to a woman, not a girl she used to be not so long ago. Gone are the plump knees and chubby cheek -  Mimi has cheekbones now, sharp, sculptured, giving her face a mature look of a movie star. She’s standing next to her mother, scanning the crowd with her blue eyes and when she spots Riza, her mouth curves into a small smile and she discretely waves her with the tips of her gloved fingers.

Riza returns the gesture; how she would love to talk with Mimi.  Give her a hug, offer condolences, run barefoot through Mustang’s peach orchard and make flower crowns out of daisies again.

But not today. Maybe never; maybe too much time has passed, maybe there are too different now to act like those happy-go-lucky little girls again.

 

Then, there is a whistle, a whine, a hollow sound of metal rolling on another metal. Somebody shouts, somebody starts to cry; people move towards the tracks, pushing one another out of their way,

And Riza stays frozen, her back glued to the wall of the station’s building, all at one drowning in the whole ocean of emotions, a wild current of them pulling her under.

Suddenly, she’s scared, she’s frightened, she’s terrified; her legs tremble and she clasps her hands together so tightly that her knuckles turn white; somewhere at the back of her mind, her brain registers the taste of metal on her tongue as she bits hard on her lower lip.

 _Roy, Roy, Roy_ her blood hums his name in her ears.

What if he doesn’t want her anymore?

 _Don’t be ridiculous_ she scolds herself. She’s not really afraid of that; she knows her boy. She knows his heart as well as her own. Roy could never look at her like during this party if he didn’t want her. And although a lot can change during six long years, although they are different people now, each and every letter that he send her spoke of his loyalty and love and devotion – shouted about it, even –so clearly, that he could never fake it, could never lie to her like that.

He still wants her, still loves her. So why is she trembling? What is that that she’s so scared of?

The train slowly stops but Riza cannot hear anything but the names shouted by people.

“ Marcel” and “Thomas” and “Maes” and “Andrew” and-

“Roy!”

Mimi is standing on the bench, balancing on one leg and waving her handkerchief excitedly.

“Roy, Roy!” she shouts out, despite her mother tugging on her skirt, apparently demanding of her to stop. “Roy!”

Riza cannot see her face, but she’s sure Mimi’s crying; she sounds a bit teary and she was always likely to tear up while reading a romance novel or listening to a sad song.

There is a sea of people separating her from the train, so she’s not actually able to see how soldiers step out, but she spots this moment; the screams increase in volume and more people starts to cry and then Mimi jumps down, right into somebody’s arms-

And Riza is standing still, her feet rooted in the ground, her hands clenched into fists, her vision narrowed down to the dark head next to Mimi’s. He’s taller and broader than she remembers him; all of the other details are obscured by the crowd.

Some girl pushes through people next to her, running towards a man in glasses who drops down his backpack to catch her. Some woman has her arms around the tall guy in mid-twenties; she openly sobs into his chest and he looks down at her fondly. Some other couple is kissing. Some man gathers three kids from the ground all at once and spins with them around, their cheerful shrieks filling the air.

All this joy. All this happiness.

“Riza!”

Her heart stops.

“Riza!”

Her breath catches.

“Riza!”

He’s taller. And broader. Hair still unruly, eyes still dark and sparkling, although they were not bags underneath them before the war. Shirt stretching out on the muscles that didn’t use to be there.

Flushed cheeks that she remembers, the aura of self-confidence that’s new. A mixed of the Roy she knew and the Roy she will get to know.

She covers her mouth with her hands and closes her eyes. Tears spill down her face, cool against the heated skin.

“Roy.” She can barely recognize her voice when she whispers. “Roy.”

The war, the bombs, the planes, the bombing alarms, London and the lists of fallen-

All of the shouts in her head disappear when he pulls her into his arms, when he wraps himself around her, when he says her name like that – like a prayer, like a promise.

 

* * *

 

 

**Before:**

_"You always refuse to sacrifice the queen.” She notices with a tint of humor in her normally-serious voice, playing with the loose strand of her hair and staring at her feet, instead of looking at him._

_And he’s so stupid, stupid in the way grin splits his face, stupid in the way he can’t help but want with all of him to run his fingers through her hair._

_“ Well, I’ve told you. Queen is important. She can do almost anything. If used in right way, she can decide on the outcome of the game.”_

_Are they still talking about chess?_

_Probably not._

_The sun sets behind the hills and they watch it together, sitting on the steps in front of her house. It’s a summer evening, warm and smelling of sweet peaches and warm soil. Crickets are singing, a light breeze is making the wheat sway and swish._

_He takes her hand in his, laces his finger with hers and she basks in this feeling; how he doesn’t shy away from her callouses and roughened skin, how warm and big his hand is. There is a sense of security in his touch. There is something stable, something grounded; you could build on a foundation like that._

_She raises her head up to look at him and finds him already looking at her. He’s smiling softly, this smile making his eyes crinkle and shine; she can feel her cheeks turn pink. It is just a regular summer evening, one of so many they shared, but still, there’s something different in it, there’s some added weight hanging in the air.  It feels important. It feels like something they will recall twenty years from now._

_And still, it’s just natural as breathing when he leans towards her and gently raises her chin up._

_The sun is setting. The crickets are singing. The wheat is swishing. The old wood is creaking underneath their weight as they move._

“I’m home” he whispers in her ear. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! If you made it to the end - thank you. I hope that you've enjoyed my story and if so, please let me know by leaving kudos/comments, it means a lot to me. This drabble was written for royai week 2018; if you want, you can check out #toyaiweek2018 tag on tumblr to read more about our two favorite military dorks.


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